


An Odor of Petrol and Lilacs

by keats



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: DOG OWNER SUGA, M/M, and emo, and there are long paragraphs about how much they LOVE EACH OTHER, basically everyone is very gay, fuckin' anastasia au, i cant believe myself, i think this fic makes me the worst/trashiest version of myself i could ever be, i'm withholding real interaction and it hurts, ok i mean it's mostly bc there is a dog already in anastasia BUT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3624150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keats/pseuds/keats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Anastasia (1997) Haikyuu!! AU. Sugawara Koushi is a long-lost prince who goes on a mission to find his family, with some help from conmen Sawamura Daichi and Azumane Asahi. Unfortunately, spurned noble Oikawa Tooru and his ever-faithful and consistently angry sidekick Iwaizumi Hajime are determined to prevent this "journey to the past."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cemetery of Our Illusions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! It's been forever and a year since I posted anything but since 2015 is the year I became unexpectedly animanga, please enjoy this first chapter of a Haikyuu!! (mostly daisuga) AU I'm writing based on the 1997 film Anastasia. I am aware this sounds weird as all hell but I spent a lot of time thinking about this and it gradually went from a joke to a real thing I got sad about so... yeah anyway enjoy! Also see the end for notes that explain background n stuff because I did a ton of worldbuilding here. Sorry!
> 
> Also, this is dedicated to my soul sister Samantha Kate because she loves Anastasia and Daisuga as much, if not more, than me.
> 
> I like to take my titles from literature and weird stuff like that so this one is a quote from Émile Zola's The Masterpiece: "The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones."

Suga awoke in the early morning hours, as the sky was just beginning to grey. He watched, from his bed lodged in the corner, across rows of sleeping boys, as the white star rose outside, flooding the somber room with a light that reminded him of loneliness. He pushed the sheets down from over him and sat up. The sky was anything but blue. All things seemed to be a duller shade of every color. Biting his lip, he sighed dejectedly. It was June 13th, and he was fairly certain that it was his birthday.

Later, when the matron came in, shaking a bell and some sagging body parts, Suga was still sitting and watching the sun. He pulled his clothes from the end of the bed and began to work them on, slowly, as the other boys clambered out of bed with tired moans. Suga was dressed and ready before any of them but he waited awhile, until another bell rang from downstairs and the boys began to rush out through the single wooden door in the center of the room. Falling into the back of the crowd, Suga followed the chatting voices downstairs, to a row of mistreated wooden tables. There he sat and ate something that tasted like wet gravel.

He felt a hand grab at his jacket sleeve as he dropped his half-full mush bowl into the disposal cart. He nearly lost his balance; the force of the grip was so strong. It dragged him mercilessly towards the foyer, to the front door, and out into the gloomy summer. Suga straightened up as the hand gave him a rough shove that sent him out onto the front walk.

“All right, moocher, get out,” said a voice as comely as its owner. The matron glared Suga down from the threshold of the building, a ladle in one hand. “You’re a grown man now, so you know where to go. Get gone.”

“But matron! We love Suga!” A voice cried from behind her, and she whirled around, spoon splashing grey matter in Suga’s direction. A drop hit his cheek and he shuddered.

“What, you want to go instead?!” She yelled at the small boy who had protested. He shrank back from her, whimpering, then ran off. Suga could still hear him wailing when the matron faced him once again. “You. You’re a man now.” Suga wished he could have heard those words from his father, or his mother, or any family member. Anyone other than Matron. From her they were cold and unfeeling; from his family, he was sure they would have sounded proud. “Off to the factory with you.”

“I don’t want to go to the factory,” replied Suga, quietly but firmly. “I’m going to find my family.”

“Oh, really?” The matron’s left eyebrow inched up mockingly. Then, suddenly, she glared. “After all I’ve done for you, feeding you, clothing you, for ten years! Tch!” She spat towards him and Suga leapt back. Still, his reflexes failed him, and her wad of spit landed neatly on his pants. “Go on, get out. Make some use of yourself.” She paused, a cruel smile dancing on her lips. “No one’s waiting for you in Paris, stupid boy. The only people waiting are your new bosses at the factory. So get gone, before you lose that too.” With that, the matron turned and slammed the door.

Suga sighed. He hadn’t expected any more or less of Matron; she was ruthless, no matter the situation. His fingers reached instinctively for the gold chain around his neck; at the very end glistened a pendant reading “Together In Paris.” He shook his head. “Someone must be waiting for me,” he whispered, tracing the letters with the brittle nail of his index finger. “Someone has to love me, to have given me this.”

As Suga made his way down the road, heading for the factory only because he had no idea where else to go, he kicked the dust in the road up aimlessly. Clouds of it wafted around his knees; he could hardly see his feet. He sighed again. “I wish someone would give me a sign.” As he began once again to trace across the letters on the pendant with his fingernail, he heard a sharp sound, like a bark, that startled him. He stopped suddenly, glancing around, and through the clouds of dirt he saw a small dog, brown with grey spots, panting expectantly at his toes.

“Hey!” said Suga, smiling down at the creature. The dog looked up, equally as happy, his tongue dangling from his open mouth. “Are you lost?” The dog barked again and he chuckled. “Sorry, I don’t speak dog.” The puppy — he couldn’t have been older than a year, Suga surmised — jumped at his legs, resting his paws on Suga’s thighs. “What?”

In a flash, the dog had turned and started off down the street, towards a crossroads only several meters off in the distance. He stopped at the two signs and barked again. Suga glanced up at the sign dividing the fork: one way indicated that it led to factories and farms in the countryside, where he was supposed to go; the other…

_Tokyo._

“I’ve never been to Tokyo,” Suga mused, and the dog let out an oddly encouraging woof. “At least I don’t think I have.” With a sad hum, he turned towards the road leading to the factory. “It was nice meeting—” he began to say, when canine teeth sank into his pants and his leg. He yowled, trying to pull free of the hound, who seemed to have surprising strength for his miniscule size. “Hey!” Letting go, the dog bounded down the opposite road, the one marked with the sign reading Tokyo.

“I’m not going there,” insisted Suga, hardly thinking of whether the dog understood him. “I’m going to a factory. To do work.” The dog barked almost angrily, as if to say: _no you’re not._

After staring down the stalwart dog for several silent seconds, Suga finally understood. _A sign._ He followed the animal down the road to marked _Tokyo._ “I guess you’re right, huh. If I want to find my family, I should find out how to get to Paris. Not how to make fabrics.” A yap of assent. “Do you have a name?” He could have sworn the dog shook its head. “Well, how about… Pooka?” Pooka yelped once more, excitedly, and ran off ahead of Suga, who found himself running worriedly after a pet he had only just adopted. 

 

* * *

 

It was Sunday when the sound of a city finally filled Suga’s ears. He had been straining to listen since Wednesday, convinced every day that _today was the day_. Four days had failed him, but Sunday did not disappoint. From the back of a wooden cart, belonging to a gentle man who had looked pityingly at the holes in Suga’s shoes, he gasped at buildings much taller than he had ever seen. He gaped in awe at the sight of sheets not marred with filth fluttering in and out of open windows. Looming far beyond the bustle was an extravagantly large structure, adorned with colors he was convinced he had never seen. _That must be the palace,_ thought Suga. He had heard about the fall of the empire, that ten years ago the emperor and his family had been overthrown and killed. But from the outskirts, Tokyo appeared peaceful. No warring families, no men in armor fighting down oppressors. Suga could hardly imagine a war happening here.

The kind man let Suga off near the train station, with a heartwarmingly worried “take care.” Pooka, bounding behind Suga, weaved between the careless feet of the civilians. Pushing his way to the other side of the crowd, Suga leaned wearily on the counter of the ticket booth.

“I need a ticket to Kanazawa, please,” he asked breathily. The man behind the glass shook his head, and Suga started. “What? Why?”

“No trains are going out this time of day, boy,” he replied, nodding to the sky behind Suga, where the sun was glowing orange with the day’s end. “Try tomorrow.”

“B-but…”

“Hey, kid, sorry, I can’t help you.”

“I don’t have anywhere to stay!”

“Find a place. And then come back tomorrow.”

Suga slumped, but nodded, and with a small bow backed away from the window. He began to stroll mournfully towards the street, where the traffic was beginning to thin as the sun dipped behind the roofs of Tokyo. As he reached an alley, he ducked in, Pooka behind him, and buried his face in his hands.

“Pooka, what are we going to do?” The dog, to Suga’s misery, had no reply. “We don’t have enough money for a room tonight.” He dropped his hands, his lips quivering anxiously. “We probably don’t even have enough money for a ticket… What do we do?”

“First, you get papers,” said a raspy voice from down the alley. Suga jumped, backing away towards the street. With a whimper, Pooka leapt into his arms; he then began to growl lowly, prompting Suga to hush him. Drifting towards them was a short woman, old and wrapped in a thin shawl. “Then you can get a ticket.”

“Papers?”

“Yes, identification papers.”

“Where do I get those? I… I’m not from here.”

“Go see Daichi-san. He’ll make them for you. Cheaper than the government, and less difficult to get, too.”

“Dai- who?”

“Daichi. He works in the old palace.” The woman gave Suga a half-toothed smile and passed him by with surprising speed, disappearing into the small crowd still moving down the street. He could have sworn he heard a faint “good luck” as her last strand of white-grey hair flicked around the corner. Still cradling Pooka, he gave the alley a cursory scan that cumulated in nauseated disgust; the ground shone with a mysterious sticky liquid and the walls crumbled in a menacing fashion. Suga promptly stumbled out into the street, unexpectedly revolted. Quickly, he began walking towards the palace, while the sun colored the bored city buildings orange as it sank into the earth.

When he last reached the palace gates, the sun had been replaced by his sister, who cast a cold white glow across the length of everything in sight. Suga had expected the moon to be dimmer, at least in contrast to the yellowy lamplight emanating from the buildings now below him. But as he grazed the constellations with a glance, the moon seemed brighter than he had ever seen her. Something swelled inside him and he smiled, suddenly warm in his threadbare coat.

The ostentatious doors were unhinged; they lay recklessly on the ground outside of the gates. Suga and Pooka, who was now trotting quietly behind his human companion, crossed the lawn slowly, dodging scraps of wood and metal, tall grass brushing past the dog’s head. As they reached the palace, Suga could see the windows and doors boarded up with rotting wood. Checking around the perimeter, Suga found an entrance to one side where the last remaining slab of wood looked in danger of falling apart. He grasped it firmly in his hands and peered into the darkened building. “Daichi?” he called. “Daichi-san? Hello?”

He leaned in further, to peer into the blackness, and Pooka shot between his legs and up through a space in the boards. “Pooka, no!” Instinctively, Suga reached for him, the wood pressing on his chest until it cracked with a dissatisfying rip, wet splinters flying haphazardly around him. With a gasp he lost his balance, tumbling forward through the now-wide-open entryway. He fell to his hands and knees, panting, as Pooka’s barks and tapping claws began to echo further and further away from him. “Pooka!” he called, still breathing heavily, looking up at the room.

The air was visible in front of him with particles of dust lacing it; in fact, they covered everything in sight. Still, the darkness was more potent, and Suga could hear the sound of his voice traveling, could feel the great emptiness of a huge hall, but could not see beyond several feet in front of him. As his eyes began to adjust, the vastness before him became clearer, even in total blackness. It seemed to continue endlessly. Tables lined with abandoned unidentifiable treasures stretched on and on, as the sound of Pooka’s paws kept growing fainter.

Scrambling to his feet, Suga began to follow the dog’s receding pawsteps, half-stumbling, half-running, cutting the air with cautious hands in front of him. He gasped when, after what seemed like minutes of searching, he collided with a wall. He felt his way left, then right, finally finding a door and slipping his fingers around the knob to open it.

This room was nothing like the last. It was bright, though somehow illuminated by nothing but moonlight. The natural white light glistened off of silver platters with white gold handles. A series of high-up windows, taller than any human, lined what was clearly a giant party room. Hints of once-vibrant décor glimpsed through the drabness of the dark. But everything here was now defunct, left to gather and house insects. Pooka, who Suga noticed was hunched off in a corner by a table, looked to be desperately in search of them. He felt a stab of guilt for not having been able to feed the dog—a pang he felt in his own empty stomach, as well.

As eerie and sad as Suga found the scene, something about it struck him as uncomfortably familiar, as if he had seen this place once, when it had been as lively as its ornamentations suggested. The tiles felt in place under his feet and even the air, now stuffy with age and dust, smelled of… a forgotten memory. He folded his arms, now standing in the middle of the expansive room, glancing around ponderously. Just as he began to sink into a memory—or perhaps it was a dream—of a party years ago, a voice cut through his reverie.

“Hey! Hey! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your necessary background: all events of the story prior to this first chapter closely follow the timeline of the Russian Revolution as set out by the film Anastasia (not as by actual Russian history, which is embarrassing for someone who studies Russian history lmao lmao). Basically, the concept is the same: although this doesn't take place in a particular real time period in Japan, I advise imagining a 1910s-esque period; there will be carriages. The principle is that the emperor is overthrown in a coup led by some key advisers, the most important of which is executed by the emperor himself before he is removed from power. The emperor and his wife are then killed, the royal family is torn apart, yada yada yada. Just watch Anastasia, honestly. If you haven't seen Anastasia, but this, for some reason, strikes your fancy, I won't be making it very hard to follow, so just keep up with my notes! Anyway, royal family splits up, country becomes a shogunate (think Meiji Restoration backwards!!! kinda), and now there's a 18 year-old boy who has no memory of his life before the coup who looks suspiciously like the lost son of the emperor.


	2. Like the Sun, Even Without Looking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Daichi and Asahi!!!!!!!!! Fulfilling Anne's request to "bring [her] Daichi." I'm trying to come through!!!!!
> 
> Suga POV but also we all know Daichi is super hot so I'm not at all sorry about the beginning of this chapter? Anyone would have these thoughts, especially Sugawara Koushi.
> 
> Suga meets them in a palace à la "Once Upon A December." Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I have to say is that Daichi is hot as fuck. Enjoy.
> 
> (p.s. chapter title is a quote from Anna Karenina: “He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”)

“Hey! Hey! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Suga blinked and spun his head towards the sound of the voice. At the top of a flight of stairs stood a man, his arms folded across his chest like Suga’s, but tensed angrily. He wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, with an olive green vest and a pair of smooth-looking brown pants. The man’s hair was obviously unresponsive to grooming, because it was sticking up haphazardly in several directions. And yet, he looked composed, and probably — no, definitely — charming, at least in comparison to Suga. He suddenly became self-conscious of his shoddily patched pants and his yellowing shirt. The man at the stairs was by no means wealthy, but he had cleanliness, and handsomeness too, that Suga envied.

“Um, hello,” the voice said, the tone annoyed. “What are you doing here?”

“I- um…” Suga felt the words squeezing tighter and tighter in his lungs as the man trotted carelessly down the stairs. His brown hair bounced gently with his stride, and as he neared the bottom, his face absorbed Suga’s thoughts. He had a strong, defined jaw, set with confidence and determination, and dark eyes that betrayed a myriad of almost unreadable emotions. Suga pressed himself not to look at the man’s lips; but temptation overcame him. Even in anger and irritation, they were delicate, and enticing…

“What are you doing here, kid,” and something about the way he called Suga “kid” brought back reality.

“I’m not a _kid_ ,” Suga insisted, attempting haughtiness by raising his chin ever so slightly. “Anyway, I’m here looking for Daichi.”

“Okay, you found me,” the man sighed, although it could have been a groan. “What do you want?”

“I need papers.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you.” Suga’s jaw dropped.

“Hey, you don’t even know why—”

“I don’t really care that much, kid. I don’t have time for papers right now.”

“I am not a _kid_ ,” Suga repeated again. So Daichi-san may have been handsome, but he was more importantly a jerk. “You don’t have to be so rude.”

Daichi’s eyes widened. “I am not being rude. And anyway, you should talk. You waltz in here, without asking, demanding papers. Who do you think you are, the Prince of Politeness?” Suga scoffed in disbelief. Taken aback (whether by himself or by Suga neither was sure), Daichi gaped in response and seemed poised to offer more lectures and insults when a timid voice behind him called out “Daichi?”

Suga looked up and was more startled than he had been all evening. Now at the top of the stairs stood a man who seemed meters tall, with broad shoulders and long brown hair wrapped up in a bun. Suga paled. The man looked as if he could eat him alive.

“It’s nothing, Asahi,” replied Daichi, his back now broadly exposed to Suga. “Just someone looking to buy papers.”

“Oh,” responded the large man quietly. Suga could now see that the lines in his face were something opposite of his physique; they were kind and anxious and soft, with years of compassion folded into them.

“Please,” Suga begged, grabbing Daichi’s right arm, heartened by the gentle-faced man’s presence. “I need papers to get to Paris.” Daichi shrugged.

“Sorry. I said we’re not doing papers at the moment.”

“Oh. Okay.” Bitterly, Suga dropped his hand and backed away. Daichi glanced back at him over his shoulder, something like sympathy in his eyes—and then they darkened with bewilderment, his brow knitting, and his mouth twisting perplexedly. Suga opened his mouth to speak but only air passed over his tongue.

All at once, Daichi swirled his head back around to where the man named Asahi was standing. Suga watched nervously as the muscles in his shoulders tightened. Whatever Daichi was doing with his face must have been more alarming, however, because Asahi muttered out a frightened “what” and began to tremble where he stood. When he finally spoke, after tense and lengthy silence, Daichi’s voice came out eerily resolute. “You said you wanted to go to Paris, right?” Suga only nodded. “It’s too bad. We happen to be going to Paris—” Suga opened his mouth to speak, but Daichi proceeded to trample over his opportunity. “Unfortunately, our third ticket is for the former emperor’s long-lost son, not for a… well, a nobody.”

Miffed, Suga let out a huff that drew Daichi’s eye. “I am _not_ a nobody,” he retorted, unable to think of anything else to say, inwardly cursing how childish Daichi’s self-assurance and demeanor made him feel. A low growl rumbled from Pooka, who was now at his side in his defense.

“Hm,” mused Daichi, turning to face Suga once again, running his eyes along the length of his figure. It made him uncomfortable, to be studied under so much scrutiny, but the way Daichi’s gaze lingered in places where maybe it shouldn’t have set an unwelcome fire in Suga’s stomach. “No, you’re not nobody; just like how you’re not a kid,” he said at last, a surprising lack of mockery in his tone. “You know, uh… what’s your name?”

“Suga.”

“You know, Suga-san, you look an awful lot like a certain long-lost royal.” Suga could have sworn that he saw Daichi blush lightly as he said this, nodding his head indicatively towards the top of the stairs. Looking beyond the still-quivering gentle giant, Suga could make out a large portrait, almost a mural, of the former royal family. Between a stoic-looking man and a woman with a kind, young face was a boy with ash blond hair, the color of healthy straw, and a smile that reached to the mole beneath his left eye. Suga touched his hand instinctively to his own mole and frowned.

“The boy?” A curt nod of affirmation. “I guess I do,” he replied pensively. Daichi looked dissatisfied at his nonchalance.

“So, Suga… Is that a first name, a last name? A nickname, maybe?”

Suga shrugged. “I don’t know. I was found wandering around when I was eight years old. I don’t remember anything from before then. All I know is that… well, I go by Suga. And I have family in Paris.”

“Hm. Well, it’s too bad, Suga-san. I really would like to help you, but…” with a hand he gestured towards the faded portrait hanging behind them. “Our last ticket belongs to him. Although I must admit, the resemblance is a bit uncanny. Don’t you think, Asahi?” he called to his friend, glancing meaningfully over his shoulder.

Asahi started in surprise, but moments later, something in him seemed to click, and he pasted a shaky smile on his lips. “Ah, yeah, you’re right, Daichi. He does look a lot like the missing prince.”

“Did you ever consider that maybe you _were_ the prince, Suga-san?”

He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Me, a prince?”

“Well, you’re about the same age. You have no recollection of your past.”

“And no one knows what happened to the prince,” chimed in Asahi, finally sounding mildly comfortable.

“You’ve got the hair, even the beauty mark. And your family is in Paris, you say.”

“The only remaining member of the royal family also lives in Paris.”

“That’s why we’re looking for the boy, to reunite him with his grandmother there. But… well, who’s to say that he isn’t you?”

“You’re crazy,” mumbled Suga, shaking his head. “There’s no way. Sure, we all dream of being royalty but… it’s not possible.”

“Well, if that’s what you think,” responded Daichi, the taunting in his voice painfully obvious. “If that’s what you think, then come on, Asahi. We’re wasting our time.” Asahi opened his mouth indignantly but Daichi was already sprinting up the stairs, grabbing him by the arm and spinning him around. Suga followed them with nervous eyes, tracing briefly over the portrait of the young boy and his family. The faces spurred nothing in his memory, but he couldn’t help feeling as though they were, like this whole palace, oddly familiar. As Daichi and Asahi’s footsteps receded up the stairs, Suga was suddenly seized with a desperate urge to follow them. _Why not_ , he kept thinking. _Why not?_

“Wait! Daichi-san, wait!” he cried, darting after the two men, Pooka at his heels. Daichi stopped and turned to him, a crooked, seemingly satisfied smile on his face. “You’re right. I don’t remember who I am—or was, or whatever. So who’s to say that I’m not this prince, right? And if I’m not, then the Empress will know and it’s no big deal! Just an honest mistake.”

Daichi bared his teeth into a grin. “Yeah, just an honest mistake, sure.” He elbowed Asahi triumphantly, who yelped and rubbed his ribs mournfully, as if Daichi had caused fatal damage with a simple nudge.

“So… can I come to Paris with you?”

“Well, first you’ll have to learn everything you can about the prince, to prepare for the Empress’ test.”

“There’s a test? You didn’t say there would be a test!” Suga’s eyes widened. He hardly believed—no, he _didn’t_ believe—he was a long-lost prince, so how on earth could he take a test to prove it?

“I just did,” retorted Daichi snidely, crossing his arms. “Besides, your _countenance_ ” — his sneer was sickening — “needs work. And your clothes, too. Everything about you, really. But don’t worry, you’ll do great. Hopefully.” Suga was stunned into an offended silence. Asahi leaned forward and placed a large hand on Daichi’s shoulder, murmuring something softly by way of reproach. Daichi merely shrugged off the hand and shoved both of his into his pockets. With exaggerated pity, he murmured: “Don’t you want to go to Paris, Suga-san?”

He did. More than anything. Suga nodded, then sighed dejectedly. “I guess a prince, even only a possible one, has to learn manners at some point, right?” He broke into a weak grin.

“They sure do,” laughed Daichi, grabbing Suga’s shoulder and squeezing it comfortingly. “Well, let’s not waste any time then. First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll meet at the train station and head out west. Better rest up.” He turned, Asahi mirroring him, and began trotting up the stairs, when Suga cleared his throat timidly and caught Daichi’s attention. “Yes?”

“I don’t have a place to stay, actually,” he admitted, staring at the tiled stairs.

“Fine, then come with us. But leave the dog.”

“No way! If I go, then so does the dog,” he insisted, sweeping Pooka up into his arms. He was beginning to like Daichi less and less.

“Let it go, Daichi,” interjected Asahi, before Daichi could offer any snarky response. His face was warm with the first flickers of a smile. A soft, pinkish-red crept around his slight, childlike cheeks and filled the creases of his dimples. “I like the dog.” Playfully, Pooka yapped, bounding out of Suga’s arms into Asahi’s. He cradled the dog delicately, as if he feared his hands would crush it. Oblivious, Pooka nuzzled into Asahi’s chest; in response, love seized the man’s muscles, contracting them tighter, yet still carefully, around the small dog.

“You would,” Daichi grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Come along then. We’re going to get an early start tomorrow. And bring the stupid dog, I guess.”

“He’s not stupid,” hummed Asahi affectionately, burying his face in the dog’s fur.

With an emphatic groan, Daichi stomped up the remaining stairs to the landing. “Just come on,” he shouted complainingly. Suga waited before he had disappeared down the hallway before glancing sideways at Asahi and whispering:

“Is he always this mean?”

Asahi frowned. “I don’t know. He scares me all the time. But everyone does.”

“Everyone except dogs, it seems.” Suga was flushed with relief, remembering Asahi would be around; maybe he could make Daichi’s presence somewhat tolerable. Or at least act as a buffer for the sudden swelling of Suga's heart whenever Daichi looked at him.

“Everyone except dogs,” Asahi echoed, smiling for the second time and clutching a now-sleeping Pooka ever closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be writing more on Friday but since I'm back in college, (woooooo) I'm much busier than I was like two weeks ago, thus I cannot promise that there will be any consistency to my updates or whatever. I'm out of school in June so you have permission to hate message me if I don't finish this fic by September 2015 and I MEAN THAT. But yeah!!!!!!! Chapter 3 coming to a theater near you in 2015 sometime!


	3. Who Are You: My Brother Or A Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a train and attempted murder and a couple of gays and Oikawa Tooru is not a genius but he's there and he's super cute.
> 
> In other words: There's some real emotional shit in this but most important Iwaizumi and Oikawa are here now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, shit's getting crazy. I can't believe I'm actually posting this third chapter? It's about as long as the rest of the fic too, which is pretty... out there. Anyway, as usual, thanks for reading and also for paying attention to my writing? It's so bizarre to me that people are actually INTO this because it totally started as a joke. And then became not a joke like two seconds later. And now it's very serious. Okay.
> 
> THANK YOU for all of your support and kudos and likes and comments and hits or whatever! This is unprecedented for me, someone who is a is generally unreliable and inconsistent as a writer, so I greatly appreciate it! It also keeps me going and pressures me to write more because I would feel like a huge jerk if I didn't give you guys any more. So thank you for keeping Anastasia AU alive.
> 
> As usual, the chapter title comes from literature; this time it's Anna Akhmatova's poem "As if with a straw you drink my soul." Please read the whole poem, it's absolutely beautiful, but the key lines where the title comes from are:
> 
> "Who are you: my brother or a lover.  
> I don't remember, and I don't need to remember."
> 
> If you couldn't tell, I'm very into Russian literature; I'm just covering my bases with Tolstoy and Akhmatova. The rest of the chapter titles could possibly be from Russian authors and poets. Just a warning...

The cold countryside, darkened by emptiness and impending night, flickered by continuously through the window of the train carriage. Iwaizumi Hajime flatly ignored the day-old newspaper in his lap, choosing instead to watch the flying inches of Japan, as he propped his feet up on the velvet-cushioned seat opposite him. A vague whining noise had been harassing him for some time; he had been paying it no mind, when it was suddenly accompanied by a repeated jabbing of his right cheek. Shifting his eyes, he could just see Oikawa’s brown hair and beaming face in his periphery. The sight churned the mediocre train food sitting in his stomach. _What an ass._

“Can you quit it,” he growled, swatting away the offending finger. Oikawa sat back — he had been quite close, not that that was unusual — and frowned.

“You’re no fun, Iwa-chan,” he griped, crossing his arms. The frown was sagging into a pout and Iwaizumi’s dinner threatened to come up. Iwaizumi hated that face, that self-pitying, puppy dog, love-inducing face. He hated it… or so he told himself.

“Shut up, Trashykawa,” Iwaizumi mumbled, looking away before he made a mess of their lush cabin. _It’s just the train_ , he reminded himself fruitlessly. Even with his eyes trained on the landscape, he could feel Oikawa’s on his jaw and cheekbones; he knew those familiar lips were still pursed in complaint. After a moment, another whine cut through the silence:

“Iwa-chaaaaaaan!”

Iwaizumi refused to look at him. “What.”

“I’m bored.” Oikawa’s petulance was destructive; in only a few words, the high notes in his voice rendered Iwaizumi nearly breathless.

“What do you want me to do about it, stupid,” he retorted defensively, mustering as much anger in his face as he could when he swiveled to look at his friend once again. “I told you to bring a book.”

“I finished it already.” _Of fucking course._

“God, you’re impossible,” he moaned, rubbing his face vigorously. “Fine. Take my newspaper. Just leave me alone, Tooru.”

Oikawa snatched the newspaper from Iwaizumi’s lap, glanced at it fleetingly, and then tossed it to the ground. “This is boring, Iwa-chan. And old. It’s from yesterday.”

“I _know_ that, you ass.” Iwaizumi, hiding behind his palms, prayed his face was less red than it felt.

“Talk to me, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa chirped, and Iwaizumi strained to suppress a groan.

“About what.”

“Mmm,” came a hum. There was the feeling of movement, like something was shifting, and then Iwaizumi found his hands being pried away from his face. Oikawa was sitting across from him, leaning forward, clasping his hands around Iwaizumi’s. “Let’s talk about the plan.”

“We’ve already been over it today. Twice.”

“Third time’s the charm, Iwa-chan!”

“You’re awful,” Iwaizumi snarled. “I hate you.”

Oikawa shrugged, dropping his friend’s hands and propping his feet up, mirroring Iwaizumi. “When we get to Kanazawa, we separate pretty little Prince Koushi from his friends—”

“Do you really think we can take the big guy, if they come after us?”

“You should really try to be more observant, Iwa-chan,” scolded Oikawa playfully, and Iwaizumi grimaced. “He’s scared of everything. He’s no threat. You should have seen that. I expected more of you.” _I didn’t hear that. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that._

“So we separate the prince from the group…”

“And then we crush him!”

“You sound way too happy about that, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi chided. Tooru only beamed, which made him blush and feel sick again. “Are you sure that this guy is even Sugawara Koushi?”

Huffing a sigh, Oikawa rolled his eyes. “I’m not _stupid_ , Iwa-chan. Of course it’s him. He has the hair, the mole… and he sounds the same. He’s older, but he sounds the same.” He glanced out the window, and his voice grew softer. “I wouldn’t forget him.”

Tenderly, Iwaizumi placed a hand on Oikawa’s knee. “He’s nothing like his father, Tooru.”

“I know that, Hajime,” snapped Oikawa, jerking his knee up. “And I’m nothing like mine. But that doesn’t mean the past doesn’t matter. That doesn’t mean that my family doesn’t matter.”

“I know, I know.” There was a pause, tense but also compassionately shared. “What the emperor did to your family… it wasn’t fair, Tooru. He and his family deserved to suffer for that, the way you suffered because of him. But Koushi…” the use of that familiarity of name felt unwelcome on his tongue, though he’d done it thousands of times, and he paused to swallow “… was like you.” Iwaizumi was looking without seeing, so he only registered the faint sound of Oikawa inhaling stiffly. “He was only eight, like you. What did he do to you? He lost his family and life too. Isn’t he a victim—”

“Shut up, Iwaizumi.” When he finally saw him, he noticed that Oikawa’s fists were balled at his sides, his face red with fury. “Shut up.” Then, he breathed deeply. “If you don’t want to help me, you can leave. I’ll do this on my own.” Iwaizumi felt the doubt still stirring in him, but stronger was his sympathy for Oikawa. Sugawara-san’s family had killed Tooru’s; he had no one left but Iwaizumi. And Iwaizumi had no one but him. They only had each other, and how could he let a useless ex-prince come between them? No one was worth that much.

“Oh, come on, Assikawa. Of course I’m going to help you.” He kicked sharply into Oikawa’s side, making him yelp. “Besides, we only have each other.”

Oikawa grinned and lunged at Iwaizumi, throwing his body on top of his friend’s, wrapping arms deftly around his neck. “I knew you wouldn’t abandon me, Iwa-chan! You could never leave me. I’m too wonderful.”

“Oh, shut up!” yelled Iwaizumi, pushing against Oikawa’s warm chest with all his might, to no avail. “You’re such an idiot, Oikawa. _And get off of me!_ ” 

* * *

Daichi grumbled to himself as he trekked back through the tilting hallways of the train. Asahi had sent him off to get something for Suga, who had idiotically stored his weathered and practically empty knapsack in the luggage car. Around him, people crashed carelessly into doors, walls, each other, as the train swayed recklessly side-to-side across the tracks lain unevenly on grassy terrain. A woman, her hair piled up to an excessive height, collided into Daichi, then brushed past with not even a mumbled apology. His hands shook slightly as his temper ignited, but as just he grew to be utterly fed up with the situation, he found himself at their carriage door. Sighing with relief, he slipped inside and tossed Suga’s bag down on the seat.

Arms crossed frustratedly, he collapsed on the seat next to Asahi, who was worriedly eyeing their makeshift papers. The bright blue ink popped against the crisp white of the page, the characters were flawlessly drawn in an elegant hand—Asahi’s own. Daichi glanced at his companion’s face, then to the page, then back again. Asahi’s brow remained creased with panic.

“Everything okay, Asahi?”

“What if I did something wrong, Daichi? What if I missed something?”

“You didn’t. You never do,” responded Daichi calmly, but rolling his eyes. “It’ll be fine.” Shifting his eyes to the seat across the car, he saw Suga sleeping peacefully, his tattered coat sprawled over him. A wisp of ash-blond hair rested lightly on his cheekbone, shielding his eyelid from view, and Daichi had to fight the urge to brush it away. He could feel his muscles knotting up; desperately, he tried to loosen them without moving. How could this one person infuriate and inflame him in such rapid cycles?

“Yeah, but what if?” Asahi was saying, petting Suga’s dog—or, more precisely, Suga and now Asahi’s dog—with a free hand.

Daichi had no response. His eyes continued to unguardedly explore the landscape of Suga’s body. _Don’t_ , was his unconscious’ warning: an unheeded one. Daichi discovered new joys in every region. Suga had a mole on his right wrist. Suga had the most beautiful fingers, long, dainty, at the ends of those wrists. Suga had a firm but inviting neck. Suga had the softest-looking eyelashes. Suga had flawless lips that curled inherently into an exquisitely stirring smile. Suga had a stunning, endearing presence, in waking, in anger, in sleeping, in… Daichi yearned hungrily to know what Suga’s presence in intimacy was like, if all the others were so beautiful.

“Daichi?” Asahi’s fingers on Daichi’s elbow drew his gaze and thoughts away from Suga, though the burn of desire lingered on.

“Yeah?”

“When do you think the conductor will come by?”

Daichi sighed, shutting his eyes wearily. “I don’t know, Asahi. Just relax. It’ll be fine.”

In response, Asahi shook his head, laying down the passport and brushing his materials and the dog off his lap. “I’m going for a little walk.” Inquisitively, Daichi opened an eye and stared at Asahi, suspicion knotting his eyebrows. “I’ll be fine. I’m fine. It’s fine. Be back in five, I promise,” he said softly, sliding out into the hall.

With Asahi gone, Daichi could only rest for a fleeting moment, before curiosity and unwelcome ardor drove his gaze to Suga once again. As his tongue traced across his lips, dry from the cold winter air, he stumbled upon crevices where his kiss would form perfectly around Suga’s structure. Daichi lost himself in the image of his new companion. It seemed almost too divine to be genuine. Suga was so delicately fashioned, like a carving from the purest block of ivory. Daichi’s fingers trembled to touch the soft, white skin—how cool and polished it looked, and how hotly inviting—and he was considering fulfilling his longing in earnest when the carriage door slid open violently.

“Daichi!” whispered Asahi furiously, grabbing his friend with quaking hands. “We have to go!”

“What, why?”

Asahi slumped down beside Daichi, still shaking, buds of tears in his eyes. “They changed the color of the ink. From blue to red.” In his hand, he held a falsified passport, its pages crumpled by his distress. The bright blue ink now taunted them both.

Uttering a soft moan, Daichi snatched the document and tossed it to the ground. “I hate this government. Suddenly, everything’s in red.”

“Don’t say that, Daichi,” murmured Asahi nervously, scrambling to collect the papers. “What if they hear you?”

Daichi ignored him. “We should move to the baggage car. As quickly as possible.” Glancing around quickly, he sighed. “I’ll wake up _his royal highness_.” His tone was laced with exhausted sarcasm, and he rolled his eyes, for effect and Asahi’s benefit. He hoped the discomfort of derision would keep his friend from a panic attack. “You get the papers and… that thing.”

It seemed to work, for after following Daichi’s hand with his eyes, Asahi frowned. “That _thing_ is a _dog_ , Daichi.” His companion only shrugged.

Tentatively, Daichi made his way over to Suga’s side. Looking down on the boy—or rather, he was still young, but he had just begun to be a man—it felt almost more than a shame to wake him and destroy the vision of perfection he was in slumber. Even so, in waking, Daichi remembered he could speak with that now-familiar lilting voice, though he cringed at the knowledge that Suga’s words to him would be biting, as they had been all through their previous first night together. He was practically feverish in imagining how Suga’s kindness would sound. Nearly overcome with want, he moved quickly to shake Suga’s shoulder and back away from this fountainhead of temptation.

But he moved too slowly. As his hand closed gently around Suga’s thin, pointed bones, an arm shot up and struck him squarely in the jaw, so hard that he stumbled backwards and nearly fell into the opposing seat. His cheek burned unbearably.

Startled and alarmed, Suga shot up from the cushion, blurting out an incoherent apology. His distress was apparent as he glanced around the car, until he came upon Daichi clutching his face, whereupon the worried frown became a smirk. “Oh, it’s you. It’s fine then.” Daichi’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but he closed it again with great force of will, determined to look composed in the face of shock and pain.

“Come on,” he grumbled, turning away from Suga. “We’re switching cars.”

As they slid into the cold air of the baggage car, after they had gathered their belongings and ducked several conductors, Daichi heard Suga mumble something inaudible while tossing his bag over a suitcase made of carpet fabric. “What a nice upgrade,” Suga then announced loudly, shooting an unfriendly look at Daichi.

“I asked for the best they had,” replied Daichi scornfully, avoiding the gaze.

“There wouldn’t have been anything wrong with our papers, now would there?”

“Well, uh—” Asahi began, but Daichi waved him off.

“No, no, of course not.” Under his friend’s forbidding glare, Asahi could only nod.

“Sure, of course not,” parroted Suga, plopping down on a crate. Daichi rolled his eyes; Suga was being utterly maddening, once again. “Odd lodgings for a prince, though, don’t you think?”

Daichi was prepped to respond, his mouth open in protest, when the door leading to the main cars slid open and a man peered into the doorway.

He was about Suga’s age, maybe a year or so older, with short dark brown hair that stood up sharply in several directions. His face was thin and long, his cheekbones defined, his eyebrows angled in permanent quizzicality. He stared blankly at the three of them, Asahi, Daichi, and Suga, for a moment, before blinking and offering a vague and insincere smile. “Sorry, just came to get something,” he said lifelessly, snatching a nearby bag and receding into the comforts of the passenger section. The door slipped closed carelessly behind him.

Asahi breathed out Daichi’s name worriedly; in response, he shrugged. “It’ll be fine.”

For near an hour they sat in silence, Asahi petting the dog and looking forlornly at the defunct passports, Suga reading a worn book, Daichi glancing between the latter and his nails, trying not to focus on Suga’s neck for too long. As the night truly set in, the few faint sounds of movement in the passenger cars dying out, they were suddenly jostled about by a large bump on the tracks.

“What was that?” Asahi started and Pooka barked fearfully.

“I don’t kn—” Daichi began to respond, interrupted by another violent jolt of the car. As all three attempted to readjust following the unexpected movements, they were quickly thrown down again. The car’s motion became irrational and unpredictable and soon they were crouched on the floor, struggling to stay on their feet. Daichi crawled laboriously to the front of the car, where it connected to the rest of the train. From his squatted position, he extended an arm. And he threw open the door.

And he gaped into nothing but fast darkness.

There was no train in front of them, only tracks that they traversed with perilous inconsistency. The scent of fading fuel fumes lingered in the air, lacing the car with the crispness of night. The wind filled Daichi’s open mouth and throat, and he coughed.

“What happened?” Asahi shouted, somehow timidly, over the rushing sound of speed.

“We separated from the train,” replied Daichi, facing his comrades but continuing to cling to the doorframe. “We’re moving on our own.”

“How?”

“We’re headed downhill…” The slope below planted fear in his stomach. “We’ll crash at the bottom. We have to jump.”

“What?!” Suga’s jaw looked unhinged. “You’re kidding, Daichi-san.”

“I’m not,” he retorted grimly, still clutching the sides of the doorway. “Hurry up.”

Suga and Asahi snatched up their bags and the dog, who was yelping wildly, while Daichi looked nervously over his shoulder at the approaching earth. In all his life, crawling up walls and things he shouldn’t have, he still had never seen a drop so steep and foreboding. From the corner of his eye, he saw the two men move towards him, and he stopped them with a violent shake of his head. “Go back. We have to jump out the back.”

With marked effort and a lack of things to cling to, the three struggled but made their way to the door at the back. Daichi opened this other door from the ground as well, bringing into view the other side of that frightening murkiness. The wind seemed to push them through the exit; they could hardly restrain themselves a moment longer from leaping when Daichi, nestled between them, grabbed them both by the arms. Somehow, in a flash, he had them by the hands, one of theirs in each of his. “Jump left,” he instructed assuredly, giving Suga’s hand a little squeeze and Asahi’s a big one, as he felt the large fingers trembling against his own.

Together, they counted to three and leapt into the embankment.

* * *

“How thoughtful of you, Iwa-chan,” squealed Oikawa Tooru, clasping his friend’s hands tightly. “You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

“I just did it to get it over with, so you’d stop complaining.”

“That’s not true! You did it for me, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa paused. “I know you. You killed that stupid prince for me, because—”

“Shut it, you lazy ass,” mumbled Iwaizumi, trying desperately to yank his hands free. Miserably for him, Oikawa was tough, and kept his hold unnaturally well.

“You love me so much, don’t you, Iwa-chan,” purred Oikawa, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and Iwaizumi threw himself back, his hands wrenching out of that iron grip.

“I said _shut up_ , Assikawa,” he growled—it was more like a yell—and moved to the other side of the carriage. “Read your day-old newspaper and leave me alone. I’m going to sleep.”

In truth, Iwaizumi was shutting his eyes against the brightness in Oikawa’s own; it was a light he only ever radiated when he was truly, gleefully, unwaveringly happy. Iwaizumi was not thrilled at what he’d done: he felt black-hearted and guilty for letting three people—and a little dog, a cute one at that—crash at the bottom of that hill. He didn’t want to kill them; they were people with heads and hearts like him and Tooru. But he wanted them dead, so maybe this would all be over and he would never again have to see his best friend pretend like he wasn’t crying over “the injustice of it all.” It was indeed unfair, that Tooru’s parents had been taken like that, but Iwaizumi had the prickling fear that maybe… could Sugawara-san have felt abandoned and miserable and empty too… Did he ever feel undone or spurned or betrayed, like Oikawa did? Yet in spite of that possibility, and the existential rift it created in his heart, Iwaizumi couldn’t bear to let one man’s life break down Tooru’s. They were friends, best friends, and brothers even, or were they brothers? For the longest time, Iwaizumi had counted Tooru as his brother—and they had just as long sensed, and never said, that something about it wasn’t right. Somehow, the words “you love me” meant more than fraternity. They inspired more. They inspired a higher heart rate, a blush in the cheeks, a dilating of the pupils. Sometimes Iwaizumi even felt himself short of breath, when Oikawa made a deflective joke of the phrase “you love me.”

But when Iwaizumi opened a singular eye and saw Oikawa looking at him, with an expression of utter reverence and attachment, he found himself searching in vain for the glimmer of a jest or artifice. He felt sick. He wanted that painful potentiality for insincerity to be there. _Not here._ This wasn’t right. _Not now._ They were more than this fleeting moment of gratitude, more than Iwaizumi’s stupid, unasked-for favor. _Not like this._

“You love me, Iwa-chan,” repeated Tooru, after several minutes of silence, when he noticed that eye peering at him with total abandon. “That’s why you did it.”

Iwaizumi sensed his heart beating rapidly, his palms growing warm, his breath constricting, in agony and from arousal. Tooru’s cheeks were pink with an affectionate blush. His hands were shaking slightly with pride and his lips were curled into a loving smile. Something glistened at the corner of his brilliantly jubilated eyes. A few tears rolled down his ever-reddening cheeks and the smile became a grin.

Iwaizumi closed his eyes, shivering; he was somewhere between intense emotion and improper pleasure. He inhaled in the silence that was only interrupted by an occasional catch in Tooru’s breathing, and then by a surprising, unprecedented, almost imperceptible “I love you too.”

He couldn’t swallow for a couple minutes, but with his eyes clenched shut and his hands pressed into fists, he finally replied: “shut up, Oikawa.” 

* * *

Since they’d landed on the ice-covered ground three hours earlier, the annoyed whines had been continuous. Suga had “commended” Daichi’s leadership skills in guiding them from the baggage car, his quick-thinking skills, and his unquestionably legal travel papers, with no end to the mockery in his tone. It seemed Suga hadn’t even paused for breath when Asahi implored him to stop, because the sarcasm was hurting his feelings; after all, the passports had been his loving art. At this realization, Suga showed genuine remorse and apologized fervently to his new ally and best friend and turned his criticisms to the unpleasant landscape, if only to remind Daichi that he was far from happy with the way things had played out.

Daichi sensed, after a bit, that his tolerance of this show was unprecedented and surprising when Asahi’s glances his way grew longer and more incredulous. He tried to stave them off with an occasional “shut up, Suga” or a groan accompanied by an eye roll.

But if he was being honest, Daichi was trying very hard to pretend that he didn’t love hearing Suga complain. If he couldn’t be content in his closeness with Suga—he was jealous that he lacked the intimacy that Asahi had with this phenomenal new friend—he was reassured at least by the knowledge that every word Suga spoke yielded a dagger meant only for him. Daichi took comfort in knowing that, no matter how much he was loathed, he, too, was noticed. Now if only he could make Suga like him.

“What are you looking at, Daichi-san?” A rough, confrontational question cut through his thoughts. When he blinked, Daichi realized he was staring directly into Sugawara’s perplexed face.

“Nothing,” he countered quickly, turning away. “Just wondering when you were going to shut up.”

“You don’t have to be so rude, Daichi,” gasped Asahi. Both Daichi and Suga shrugged in response.

“Whatever,” said Daichi, just as Suga declared: “he’s just embarrassed that he did something stupid.”

“I am not!” cried Daichi indignantly, glaring at Suga, a blush in his cheeks. “You’re being difficult.”

“Oh, don’t take it so personally, Daichi-san,” teased Suga, licking his lips and smirking. Daichi shuddered instinctually and, noticing it, Suga quieted, until his next words were almost inaudible. “I’m only teasing, anyway.”

All three fell silent for the first time, but Daichi’s ears were filled with a roaring, louder than any words, and the soft crackling of his skin shaking longingly. 

* * *

The next evening, they were only a couple kilometers out of Kanazawa. They had walked through the night and the following day, until their bones shook with fatigue. Suga’s shoes had grown holes overnight, and he had begun to worry about trench foot. Desperate for a rest, the trio had collapsed on the bank of a nearby stream, where Suga aimlessly uprooted innocent blades of grass with his fingers. On one side of him, Asahi was asleep; he could tell, because the gentle giant’s breathing was finally steady, since in sleep there was nothing to worry him. Daichi’s naturally composed rhythm made it harder to determine whether or not he was lost in dreams, but he flanked Suga on the opposite side, buried in the grass, his hands folded across his ribs, his eyes closed loosely.

Alone in thought, Suga could focus on the things he had noticed throughout the day. He was thrilled by the way when, after having been in the wind for too long, Daichi licked his lips more often, trying to rescue them from cracked dryness. It gave them a redder tint than their usual soft pink; it was a tone far more fleshy and pleasurable. Suga clutched feebly at the earth as he stared surreptitiously, his hands moving about feverishly until he caught the rough canvas of his knapsack under them. Squeezing the nearly empty material, shaped only by his singular non-wearable belonging—a book—he swallowed a short series of gasps.

He remembered seeing Daichi’s lips for the first time, only days ago: even then they had affected him. He was indignant that something so insignificant moved him so profoundly. Daichi’s presence was increasingly virulent, and Suga was now constantly worried his health could be in danger.

Suga could not remember ever liking anyone, even if he had doted on the other boys at the orphanage. He had never known this fervor of passion or romance or even fondness beyond friendship. And yet, looking at Daichi… that was all there. Everything he had learned from book he clasped through his bag manifested itself in him when he so much as looked at the veritable stranger lying next to him.

Tentatively, Suga’s fingers pulled the book out into the open. He had only ever had this one book to himself at the orphanage; it was an unkind and battered translation of some Russian poems. He loved it all the same, even when the words were so wrongly translated that they made no sense—even then he drew his happiness from it. It was in these poems that he’d read countless times that he had first experienced something other than indifference and saddened misery.

The second time was with Daichi.

He hoped vainly that perhaps, by being rude and bothersome, he could dispel the uncomfortably desirable heartache Daichi inspired. But all his unkindness only tinged the ache with guilt, which deepened it, until it sank into his stomach and his veins, until moving his legs became taxing.

And Suga knew that Daichi could never feel that same twinge, for every time they locked eyes, Daichi narrowed his, or rolled them, or looked away with an annoyed huff. None of that gnawing desire existed in Daichi, and that was good, it was fine, it was better that way, anyway. Wasn’t it?

Still, every time Daichi was near him, Suga struggled to see around him, like he was the sun, blinding and overwhelming.

Blinking back a furtive tear, Suga flipped open to a page in his book. Yet even with the water and words swimming in front of him, Daichi was in sight. Suga suppressed a weary groan.

 _I have a certain smile:_  
_Like this, a barely visible movement of the lips._

Suga had read the poem many times, but he had never hated it, not until now. He had never pictured or wished for a particular “movement of the lips” before, not until now.

_I am keeping it for you—_

He choked on something, perhaps a grieving sob, and closed his eyes. Something beside him— _the dog_ , he thought—rustled.

“Suga?” His eyes flew open. Daichi was propped on his elbows, gazing worriedly at him. His voice was unusually tender. “Are you okay?” Suga could only nod, and Daichi seemed unconvinced. He glanced between Suga’s face and the book in his hands, resting finally on Suga’s eyes. Daichi looked mildly afraid, as if his concern was unwarranted or unwelcome. Suga silently pleaded with him. _No. Please. Worry about me. Care for me._

“I was just reading,” came the eventual response, and Daichi cocked an eyebrow.

“Want to share?” Then he paused and—oh, god—licked his lips. “I mean, do you mind?”

“You probably wouldn’t like it,” mumbled Suga, tracing an absent fingernail on the edges of the worn pages.

“You don’t know that,” retorted Daichi, the strain in his voice not quite annoyance or frustration, but something closer to desperation. Suga was utterly bemused.

“It’s poetry.”

“I like poetry.”

“Oh?” Suga could have cursed himself, for spoiling this moment of genuine connection with mockery, but he felt exposed, and it was his only defense. “Do you?”

“Oh, forg—” Daichi began to say, but then he stopped himself, something unreadable clouding his face. “Yes. I do.” The downright sincerity shocked Suga again, and he stumbled to find an adequate comeback.

“Well, uh… okay.” He cleared his throat. “It’s… it’s by…” He was nearly choking to death on nothing but air. “I’ll just read it,” he finally croaked. Daichi nodded, not appearing to note Suga’s struggle for life, and closed his eyes.

     “I have a certain smile:  
     Like this, a barely visible movement of the lips.  
     I am keeping it for you—  
     Love gave it to me, after all.  
     Never mind that you are insolent and evil,  
     Never mind that you love others.  
     Before me is the golden lectern,  
     And beside me is my gray-eyed bridegroom.”

As he let out the last word with desperate breath, Suga, too, closed his eyes. The ensuing silence was interrupted at last by a soft hum from Daichi; Suga peeled open his eyelids and saw him staring.

“That was…” He didn’t seem able to find the word. “Where did you get a book with Russian poetry, Suga?”

He gaped. _I like poetry._ He hadn’t expected Daichi to recognize the poem. His throat felt as if it were closing. “I… um, well… It was something I found years ago… a-at the side of the road… in summer.” Suga exhaled forcefully. “It’s the single thing I’ve ever gotten in the last ten years that’s only mine.”

Daichi didn’t seem to be listening. “It’s beautiful,” he sighed. He was still looking at Suga and the strength of the gaze made him tremble. Then suddenly Daichi glanced away, eyeing the ground beside him. “In my childhood, the servants used to read me literature from the empires of Europe and the East.”

Suga had never bothered to ask Daichi about his past, but after seeing him for the first time, and all the times following, he was hardly surprised to hear that he was someone of status. After all, he carried himself so well, he knew about imperial customs, and he had read Akhmatova, and maybe other Russian poetry. Of course Daichi was someone of influence. The hands that squeezed Suga’s heart constantly now gripped tighter with this realization. Suga was no prince, even if he pretended to be: he was an orphan from the countryside, with no manners or talents or redeeming qualities. It pained him, but Daichi was, for an increasing number of reasons, someone he could never know or have. Suga stared into the grass, absolutely dejected.

“Thank you,” came Daichi’s voice, breaking through Suga’s whirlpool of consciousness.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered in response. The two of them fell into a painful quiet. It had the semblance of being interminable, until:

“Hey, Suga?” Daichi’s tone was unusually quiet and timid.

“Hm?”

“In dreams you don’t confuse my name, or sigh, as you do here.”

Suga coughed, taken aback. “What?!”

There was an uncomfortable lull. “Haven’t you heard the one that goes ‘you shouldn’t be in my dreams so often?’” Daichi was looking far away from Suga now, but the blush on his cheeks was still visible. Suga’s heart stumbled drunkenly.

“No…”

“Mm,” muttered Daichi, furrowing his brows.

“Daichi?”

     “You shouldn’t be in my dreams so often,  
     Since we meet so frequently,  
     But you are sad, troubled and tender  
     Only in night’s sanctuary.  
     And sweeter to me than the praise of seraphim  
     Is your lips’ dear flattery…  
     Oh, in dreams you don’t confuse my name,  
     Or sigh, as you do here.”

Daichi paused, then glanced at Suga. His entire face was red, the same shade as the flushed faded pomegranate color of his dry lips. Suga felt his own face heating up, his eyes widening, hopeful, confused.

“It’s more Akhmatova,” rasped Daichi, shutting his eyes tightly. “I thought maybe you’d know it. Or like it.” He collapsed back onto the grass, his hands clenching and relaxing at uneven intervals.

Suga stayed silent. As the sun set at last behind the semi-frozen hills, he lay his head quietly down on his weathered book and sighed. “I did. I liked it.” Daichi made a strangled noise, something startled. His face was white again, and his eyes were loose, an aura of sleepiness emanating from him. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” Daichi mumbled, squeezing his fists once more, exhaling a relieved sigh. Suga felt his heart constrict then swell. _I thought maybe you’d know it. Or like it._

He more than liked it, like he more-than-liked Daichi, like how Daichi maybe more-than-liked him. Even if Akhmatova had written it, Daichi was the voice, the person who had said it: _you shouldn’t be in my dreams so often._ Suga smiled: it was his new favorite poem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Good to see you on the other side! Thank you for reading! This chapter has been several weeks in the works at my university library (don't ask; I can't explain it). It has surprised me a lot along the way, especially the emotionalism and romance of it all? I think these things write themselves sometimes, at least in my case. 
> 
> Next week I have two midterms so this is the last you'll be seeing of me for a rough month or so (could be more, but also could be less! don't lose hope!). Unlike the rest of the world/higher education system, I'm not out of school until mid-June. I promise there will be an update before then, but at what point in the next month and a half that update will occur, I cannot say.
> 
> But yeah. Next time, shenanigans in Kanazawa (a port city in Western Japan, fyi) and [T-Pain voice] on a boat! In the meantime, do yourself a favor and read some Anna Akhmatova (or anything literary in general)! I leave you with this:
> 
> "And even I, whose fate it was to be  
> The assassin of that divine word,  
> Was almost reverentially silent,  
> In order to prolong this blessed moment."  
> (August 8-12, 1963 — Thirteen Lines)


	4. Gone in a Bliss of Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you anything, except that it's emotional and I'm sorry.
> 
> There is a ship and lots of sadness. Ships and sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends and readers! I'm updating way sooner than I'd anticipated so that's great but this chapter literally caused me grief so I'm also very very sorry. I apologize for all the sudden emotional turns this chapter takes but I wish you all well and promise that everything will eventually work out. Even if it takes like seven chapters, it will work out. I swear. 
> 
> IMPORTANT POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING—SELF-HARM/SUICIDE/NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE: If you've never seen Anastasia, then you might not know that there is a scene where, under the influence of ~evil Rasputin magic~, Anastasia almost jumps/falls to her death from a boat. This is a central aspect of this particular chapter, minus the influence of magic. HOWEVER, my intention is to present the incident as merely the product of reawakened memories and simple sleep disturbances. In both the movie and this chapter, the character who almost dies is sleepwalking. I want to warn you in case you are sensitive to either SELF-HARM or SUICIDE, because even if it is not my intention, I recognize that this situation may trigger such thoughts. If either of these things worries you, please either proceed with caution or do not read the last of the three sections of the chapter. Thank you! I want you all to stay happy and safe.
> 
> Check out the end of the chapter for more notes, I don't want to overload you here!

Asahi was not afraid of the ocean—although he did fear what might happen, were he to walk too close to the ship’s railing, or worse, fall over it. But he was certainly not afraid of the ocean, even if when looking out the small porthole window, his stomach immobilized him. He pinned the constant shifting of his organs, and the slight feeling of nausea, on the rocking of the waves. That was it and nothing more.

He hummed nervously, prying his fingers from the window’s edge, and clambering up to the inadequately sized top bunk. _That’s not it._

Asahi had awoken to the sound of voices while lying on the grass several nights earlier. He had been dreaming about a dog he’d once had and awoke abruptly to a feeling of empty longing, until he felt Pooka huddled by his side. He remembered blinking, seeing the darkening sky above him, feeling the soft snores of the dog buried in his waist, and shutting his eyes with a low, contented sigh. Then there was suddenly Daichi’s voice, murmuring, soft… and something else, too.

“Hey, Suga?” Daichi was saying. Asahi tried to breathe as normal as possible. He couldn’t be detected. He didn’t want to ruin anything.

“Hm?” Suga’s response was only a soft hum that sent a warm feeling through Asahi. It felt like an intimate reply, though it carried no words. It seemed to be a gentle expression of attention and interest that said so much with so little. Asahi smiled, looking at Suga hazily through lidded eyes, to hide his consciousness.

“In my dreams you don’t confuse my name, or sigh, as you do here.”

Asahi thought he was dreaming, or maybe hallucinating. Had he eaten something off?

The first wave was fear and confusion, and some nausea, though he felt nausea so frequently it almost passed him by sometimes. But not this one.

Asahi had known Daichi since childhood, since after the coup, since after this poor boy rambled into Asahi’s little town without parents or home or even shoes. He had come to know Daichi better than anyone: how he had once been a kitchen boy at the palace and how he missed his family—none of them really related—more than anything. Asahi knew how he liked his ramen, how he styled his hair, how he cleaned his clothes, how he held a book. Daichi had wanted him to notice and remember all of this; it had been one of Asahi’s lessons in improving his perception, because not just for a con artist, but for anyone in general, he was extraordinarily bad at reading people. He had never felt suited for this trade, but it was Daichi’s career of choice and habit, and he had sworn he wouldn’t leave Asahi alone. So he had worked with Asahi, to make him better, first by obliging him notice every little thing.

Asahi usually still missed far too much, but he did not miss the tone of Daichi’s voice, or the tense silence that followed. Perhaps he was not perceptive, or a good reader of people, but he had known Daichi all that time, and never had he heard his voice lift like that.

It had the airy quality, the lightness, of the bubbles Asahi got in his throat when he got flustered and couldn’t speak. Not unpleasant, but delicate. Still, Asahi had always cursed those bubbles, thought they tied him down; what affectionate or insightful things would he then have been able to say, if he had been born with more courage? Daichi, however, was perfect for Asahi in every way, because he was brave. He broke through the air bubble and made his peace with any situation. And then, on the banks of the river, it was beautiful, and Asahi’s second feeling was reverent jealousy.

As he leaned his body back further into the grass, his eyes closed again, a third sensation, something like panic, hit him in the chest.

He had heard about all of Daichi’s girls and, later on, guys that he had “known.” Asahi had even met a few, the ones more serious and more liked. There had been dinners, sometimes on the riviera, sometimes in the middle of a bustling Tokyo, and he had sat through all of them, when Daichi had wanted him to. Even so, at all those meals or during any of their talks, he had never heard his friend say something so heavily, either to his lover, or to him.

His thoughts burned in his ears, like boiling liquid. His face grew hot with… Embarrassment? Anxiety? Fear? Discomfort? Asahi hated labeling his emotions. Daichi had always told him, it was the best way, or maybe the only way, to stay calm, to understand and know that badness doesn’t last. But Asahi only ever became more flustered whenever he thought about what he felt. He thought his face must have been luminously red by now; he was silently thanking the darkness.

Beside him was the murmur of voices, one confused, the other distressed and agitated. Then he heard Daichi speak again, calmly, and almost monotonously: and Asahi realized he was reciting a poem.

Asahi was frozen and speechless: he was glad he should have been asleep (and embarrassed that he wasn’t), because he had heard the poem before. One of Daichi’s former conquests had been an older university student who loved poetry; Daichi had wanted to use that to his advantage. Flipping through one of Daichi’s many stolen or questionably obtained books, Asahi had suggested this one, but Daichi shook his head _no._

“Why not?” Asahi had asked, dejected, and a little hurt that his poem hadn’t been satisfactory.

Daichi had frowned, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Asahi-san. I just don’t dream about him.”

Asahi now suppressed a noise in his throat. There was this poem, about dreaming and love, and Daichi was reciting it to someone, and Asahi was hearing it happen. The gnawing guilt of eavesdropping—no matter how unintentional—was almost too much to bear, and Asahi had to push back a rush apology, and even a few tears. How was he going to make this up to Daichi, let alone Suga?

His ears continued to hurt with the novelty of Daichi’s tone. Asahi himself had never felt so warm. That timbre was a torch that blew welcome fire. There had been straining in Daichi’s voice, like the words themselves were hot coming up, but a coolness too, when he spoke them; recited though they were, they had seemed effortless. It was all in the honesty, Asahi suddenly realized, as the voices beside him died with the sun. He began to recognize parts of Daichi’s honest voice, the emotional one, the one he had used when telling Asahi about those past flames, back when he liked them. Now though, Daichi had stomped them all out, deeming none of them to be quite right. Something had been wrong with not them, but _them,_ Daichi would always say, drawing his arms across his chest, like that was supposed to help Asahi know what he meant. “We just didn’t work,” Daichi would finally sigh, before turning quickly to another topic.

Here, there was that emotional honesty in Daichi’s voice. But there was also something else. Asahi struggled to place it. He knew all of Daichi’s tones and voices and favorites: didn’t he? He realized then that there must be no precedent for that other thing that was there, the one that let his voice balance on the wind, so unaffected it incorporated itself into nature. Asahi had never heard that part of Daichi before, he was sure.

The silence of earlier that evening, when all three had collapsed against the river without exchanging a word, had returned by the time Asahi had worked through his feelings, ironically how Daichi would have wanted him to. Shaking with remorse, and a slight chill, Asahi wished he could undo everything. His insides swirled unendingly and he was nauseated with uncertainty and a mild fear.

It had been three days since. Asahi’s stomach still spun. He felt like he had been hiding, from Daichi and Suga, since that night. In a Kanazawa hotel, the night before they had boarded the ship, Daichi had glared at Asahi questioningly, a frown plastered across his lips.

“What’s up, Asahi? You’ve been acting weird.”

His eyes had darted around, searching for Suga-san, who he faintly heard outside, talking to the dog.

“Oh, uh, um…” he swallowed. “I’m just nervous.”

“About the train, still?”

Asahi nodded. “Yeah. That was… scary.”

“Sure. But we’re fine now, Asahi.” Daichi’s eyes warmed with reassurance and he placed a firm hand on Asahi’s shoulder. “Get some sleep. It’s going to be fine.”

Asahi was still terrified of the train incident, and hoped he would never have to ride in one again, though he knew that was impossible. But he was more frightened of Daichi. Daichi was horrible when he was angry, and—and well, Asahi knew this would make him angry. And plus, it was all his fault anyway, he really shouldn’t have woken up, or been dreaming about his old dog…

“Azumane!” Asahi’s head snapped up and hit the ceiling. He yowled and the voice chuckled. It was Daichi, arms over his chest, smirking. Asahi pouted, rubbing the top of his head mournfully. “I’ve been calling your name for five minutes. I didn’t know you could sleep that deeply.” He couldn’t. Asahi had a penchant for waking up throughout the night at small sounds or movements or shifts in light. He didn’t always mind: he liked the feeling of falling asleep, of the world slipping away.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he murmured fearfully—he couldn’t stop thinking about that night on the river—in reply, and Daichi gaped. Asahi knew he was quite visibly trembling.

“Jesus, get it together, kid,” he said. Warmly, he reached up a hand and patted Asahi’s leg. With a smile, he then collapsed on the other side of the cabin, on a padded mat on the ground. “So, are you excited about Paris?”

Asahi couldn’t look at Daichi. He was concerned he was going to burst internally with the effort of keeping his god-awful, forbidden, friendship-ending knowledge inside; his head was throbbing uncontrollably and everything seemed to be spinning. He was reminding himself nearly every five seconds that he wasn’t dying, that he was fine, that he just needed to breathe.

Daichi observed him patiently, for several minutes, his eyes gazing up compassionately. As Asahi finally opened to his mouth to respond, Daichi’s voice interrupted the quiet, a tease in his tone. “Or, maybe, are you excited about who’s _in_ Paris?”

Asahi opened his mouth wider, closed it, then opened it again. “Shut up, Daichi,” he tried to mumble, but it only came out as a series of rumbling consonants. His mind was already aching under the strain of his secret, and then he felt that impossibly worse—no, worst feeling, that coldness, like after a rain, when the air would be humid but not hot, like a rheumatism in his bones that he only ever got when he thought about how long it had been since Noya had hugged or kissed or even touched him.

“Sorry, Asahi,” breathed Daichi, moving from his place on the floor to the side of the fragile bunk bed. “Are you okay?” Asahi avoided his gaze. “Hey, Asahi.”

He was too busy stabilizing his breathing and thinking about the very front of Noya’s hair, where it met his forehead and sometimes curl in near-invisible wisps, and if he would ever get to kiss it again, which happened to be counteracting his other endeavors.

“Asahi.” He felt a hand wrap around his arm and pull gently downwards. Resigned, Asahi snapped his head around to look at Daichi, who was frowning, his face the picture of a worried parent’s. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing.” Asahi was a very bad liar, he knew it, Daichi knew it. The latter narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“You’re lying. Something is wrong.” Asahi shook his head and then his arm out of the loose grip. He looked down at the bedspread, steering clear of Daichi’s eyes. “Is it about Nishinoya-san?”

Asahi’s head popped up again, startled. “No!” he cried, grabbing his knees. “No. No. Nothing is wrong with me and Noya-san.” Even as the famous bad liar that he was, this was a lie he’d become good at telling, because he’d been pressing it past his lips so frequently for some time now. Still, he never quite seemed to convince Daichi.

“You’re sure?” Daichi was cocking at eyebrow at him doubtfully. “You know you can tell me that stuff, Asahi. We’ve been through this. You can tell me anything.”

“But that’s not—” Asahi stopped short, knowing it was the wrong thing to say, but too late. He gulped before finishing. “That’s not it, Daichi. Noya and I are fine.” He wished he could say they were _better than fine_ , but almost a year of separation hardly guaranteed much more, and then there was the… They were definitely much _worse_ than fine. He was distracted by the blistering thought when Daichi proffered the question Asahi had been dreading.

“Then if it’s not that, what _is_ it, Asahi?”

Asahi was not surprised to find himself without words; yet even though speechlessness was expected, it did not make him any less uncomfortable.

“Asahi, you’ve been acting strange ever since we got to Kanazawa. What’s going on?” Daichi looked weary and Asahi felt a pang of guilt. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Asahi hated that question, and Daichi asked it far too often. He trusted Daichi more than most, certainly more than himself. He could have laid his life in Daichi’s hands easily and been far more comfortable than he was handling it on his own. Daichi was so present for everything; he molded things into their perfect shapes almost seamlessly, without effort. But whenever Daichi asked things like that of him— _what aren’t you telling me, are you lying to me, why don’t you trust me, Azumane?_ —Asahi felt the slightest tinges of rage towards his oldest and, truly, dearest friend.

“I don’t have to tell you everything, Daichi,” he snapped, and both were immediately stunned by the response. Asahi’s mouth stayed hanging open after the outburst.

“No, you’re right, you don’t,” replied Daichi quietly, crossing back across the cabin. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“W-wait, Dai…” he trailed off, watching Daichi plop down onto the useless mattress on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, putting a hand to his head.

“It’s okay, just stop apologizing.”

“Sure. Sorry.”

“Asahi.”

“Right. Sorry. Shit, um… Okay. Yeah.” Then he took in a breath. Daichi wasn’t angry. Truthfully, Daichi was never very angry with Asahi. He could do this. He would be fine. He would keep all his limbs, he hoped. “Where’s Suga-san?”

“Mm, his royal highness is out tanning on the deck, I believe.” Daichi readjusted, so that he was looking at Asahi. “He’s a natural. Like he was meant to play this part. We made a good choice, didn’t we?”

“Will he be back soon?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“Uh, well…” _You are fine. You’re fine. Just breathe._ “I, um, I wanted to tell you… I heard you talking to him on the river a couple nights ago.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. His cheeks were consumed by a burning sensation.

Daichi stiffened. “Oh.”

“You… you know, that’s the poem that, I—”

“Yeah. I know.” He looked up at Asahi meaningfully, who was forcing a meek smile through his agitation. Then Daichi sighed and said jokingly: “I didn’t know you were such a snoop, Asahi.”

“I-I’m not! I just, I was having a bad dream.” Asahi felt his forehead folding, his brow contracting, his hands quaking. Somewhere in his mind, he worried about honoring and praising each one of his limbs before he lost them. “I woke up and heard you talking.”

Daichi stared at him for a moment, then relented. “Well, you’re not lying about that.” Asahi reddened further.

“But, um… _Do_ you dream about him, Daichi?” Asahi had never felt so bold, until he landed on Daichi’s eyes, coursing with anger, and his heart sank.

“I don’t have to tell you—” Daichi began mockingly, only easing up when he finally turned his eyes to look up at Asahi’s face. The expression resting there must have been pitiful, because Daichi’s gaze became downcast. “I’m sorry.” There was a pause. “Will you tell him?” Asahi was startled and confused by the sudden question, so much so he gasped. “Please say you won’t.”

“I-I won’t.”

“Thanks.” Daichi turned away.

“Tell him what?”

With a sigh, Daichi changed positions, facing Asahi once again. “I don’t know. Don’t tell him about that poem. About what it means.”

“What does it mean?” Sometimes, Asahi was comfortable asking questions, even if he himself was not with being the subject of inquiry. Now, the questions flowed almost thoughtlessly from his mind. He was urged ever so slightly by his unconscious to be more cautious or careful, to think first and ask after, but he was still too flushed with relief to take up that much control.

“I don’t know,” said Daichi again, exasperated, his voice breaking wearily. “I just want him to like me, Asahi.”

“Because you like him?”

Daichi seemed uncertain. “Yes.”

Suddenly timid, Asahi half-whispered: “how much do you like him?”

Daichi was silent for several minutes, picking aimlessly at the mattress, the ground, his fingernails. “Enough to dream about him.”

They were both silent, absorbing the exchange between them. Their friendship entailed this often, a sort of symbiotic quietness between them that allowed processing and reflection after a heavy conversation before starting something new. Usually, it was broken with a joking remark or a suggestion of a fun activity. But when Daichi spoke again, Asahi was astonished: the subject hadn’t changed.

“Do you think he likes me, Asahi?” Daichi was chewing his lip nervously, something he had rarely—maybe never—done. “Even a little? At all?” Daichi had never asked Asahi what he thought about anyone else’s feelings for him; it sent his brain into turmoil.

As was expected, and yet still much to Asahi’s dismay, speechlessness overtook him and all he could offer was a blushing expression of uncertainty. Fortunately, his friend smiled in response.

“I guess it’s probably hard to tell,” said Daichi sadly, still smiling, picking himself up from the mattress and getting to his feet. “Dinner is probably soon; I’ll go check on the _prince_.” The disdain in his voice, that Asahi had become accustomed to, now registered anew as totally false. He had missed the undertones of melancholy and gentle pleasantry, not knowing that… that _this_ was the way Daichi felt. His abilities of perception were utterly terrible, Asahi lamented: there was no other excuse. Daichi interrupted his internal self-evaluation. “Meet us in the dining room in ten.” Then he grimaced. “And we have a dancing lesson later, don’t forget.”

“Don’t forget the new clothes you bought him,” replied Asahi, smiling, unthinking. But when Daichi’s face clouded over, then turned pink, Asahi started in shock. “Oh, no, Daichi, I didn’t mean… I-I’m sorry!”

In response, Daichi laughed meekly, waving at Asahi dismissively. “He needed new clothes anyway,” he sighed. “It’s not like it’s a gift. Like it means anything, really.” With that, he slipped out onto the deck, the faint sound of the ocean strengthening for a mere second before the door slipped shut behind him.

Asahi lay back down onto the bed, bumping his head gracelessly on the ceiling in the process. The lingering atmosphere left in the room by Daichi’s mood settled over him as he reclined on the hard pillow. He tapped his heels aimlessly against the frame of the top bunk as they dangled over the edge. The sun was close to slipping behind the blue line of the horizon, creating rippling shadows across the softly creaking wooden walls, the only violator of a somehow oppressive silence.

It was the burdensome knowledge of just how long _they_ had been apart that shattered the tranquility of that stillness. It was those astronomical ten months since he had last seen Nishinoya. Letters—and the occasional telephone call, one that was never long enough and far too expensive, whenever it could be made—had never given Asahi the sense of Noya being there. There was something distorted about trying to contain so much vivacity on a stained piece of paper. Nishinoya, even if he wasn’t the greatest writer, put all himself into his letters, Asahi knew. Everything that Noya could give was there, because he wanted to give everything his all. Even so, their communication was never right: like somehow, in transportation across the expanses of the earth, the true essence of Nishinoya, what had once been funneled into these letters, had been lost.

Asahi understood that the things he loved about Noya could not be translated, like a word without an equivalent, a _saudade_. That particular word was something he’d learned the definition of from Daichi, but it was a feeling, or a place of being, that he knew intimately, as a familiar part of his soul. _Saudade_ was he and Nishinoya; as the distance had stayed the same and the time had gone on longer, it was all Asahi could piece together of their relationship. His heart had so often swelled with a sort of rushing of the blood that he called love, but only before this last year. Now, when he pictured Nishinoya, he was frightened, because the heart shrank while his stomach grew, opening up wider until it felt completely empty, the void inside groaning and grasping, as if reaching out.

He _was_ reaching out, because he hadn’t spoken with Noya in nearly two months: the last of his letters went in the mail a while back, eleven weeks or so ago. One day, when he had gotten a letter marked Paris, Asahi had felt the nothingness in him expand in agony and had flung the letter in the fire, unopened. He had regretted it, had fished through the ashes with his fingers, and found nothing. Since, he had been committed to getting to Paris as soon as possible, to make amends. He could have written a letter to Nishinoya—he knew his address by memory, he wrote letters to him every day—and he had tried to: but how would he have explained what he’d done?

_I threw your letter away. It was an accident. I’m sorry._

Cold, unfeeling, untrue.

_I’m tired of all this. Letters are not a relationship. This is not how I love you. This is not how you love me. I can’t do this anymore._

And then what? A move? A split? Asahi had rummaged through it all, in every corner of his brain. There was no alternative to the costly but foolproof cure: a human, physical apology. An apology for that letter, and for all the others that piled up on his unused desk, and for all those he hadn’t sent in two months, even if he’d taken his time and written them.

When Daichi had asked him to call Noya and arrange a meeting with the Empress, once they’d met Sugawara, Asahi hadn’t known what to do or say. Daichi was his anchor, something stable and reliable; Asahi could have told him anything. But there weren’t the words to explain what had happened. So he told Daichi that he didn’t want Nishinoya to think he was using him, could he please call instead?

To Asahi’s surprise, Noya had agreed, without complaint. And Daichi came out of the phone booth in the train station saying, his suspicion evident: “you know, it’s weird… he didn’t even mention you.”

They both knew what was wrong: Nishinoya rarely _stopped_ talking about Asahi.

He had agonized over this. Strictly speaking, Asahi worried immensely about everything, he always had, but Nishinoya was a more-than-average source of anxiety. Everything seemed to revolve around him, like he was a star, the center of his own system, in which Asahi was a planet that seemed to be drifting further away. The physical distance between them had propelled the first sensation of foreignness from Nishinoya in Asahi; since, the dissociations had become emotional, psychological, and eventually existential. Asahi had somehow developed the unsettling perception that his life was ending, because of the fading of feelings of closeness and togetherness. And to him, it made sense that things had gone this way. Asahi had never been free of the concern that he loved more, cared more. Even when Noya couldn’t stop talking about him, or writing him letters, or buying him silly and irrelevant things on a whim, Asahi was insecure: because when it came to tenderness, Nishinoya was oddly, uncharacteristically aloof.

So when Noya had not even mentioned to Daichi a thing about Asahi’s absence or failure to respond to his letters—when he neglected even to bring up Asahi’s _name_ , all those fears, of loving more, of fading away and out of Nishinoya’s life, felt perfectly genuine.

As much as he wanted to see Nishinoya and kiss every inch of his small frame with a whispered _sorry_ , Asahi also never wanted to see him again.

The sun had finally slipped behind the edge of the sea, and the shadows on the walls now danced differently, more serenely, reflections of the moon on the water. Silently, Asahi pulled himself down from the bed, skidding slightly in his socks before gaining his footing on the rocking wooden floor. He slipped his feet into his shoes by the door, grabbed his jacket from atop his suitcase, and opened the door to the hall, very much hoping Daichi and Suga wouldn’t see, or at least wouldn’t mention, that he’d been crying.

Strolling out onto the deck, Asahi was confronted by the last stragglers from the dinner hour returning to their rooms. He had lost complete track of the time, had meditated nervously all throughout mealtime, but he couldn’t have regretted it less. He was far from hungry: his stomach was feeding on other parts of him, maybe his muscles or some dormant fat, but he didn’t care, since he soon wouldn’t need them anymore anyway.

As he glanced around the emptying deck, he came across two human figures and a small blob sitting on a bench in the distance. With a loud yap, the blob—it was the dog—came running towards him excitedly. Asahi smiled, his heart reheating slightly, and petted Pooka gently on the head. When he stood up again, Daichi was standing not a meter away, his arms folded firmly, his lips set disapprovingly.

“Where were you? You missed dinner.”

Asahi blushed apprehensively. “I fell asleep,” he lied.

Daichi rolled his eyes, obviously unconvinced by the fib, but he graciously turned his attention away from it. “We have to teach Suga-san how to dance,” he declared, matter-of-factly. Hovering over Daichi’s left shoulder was the thin yet luminous and distinctive shape of their companion. He had a soft, kind smile dancing across his lips, his eyes on Asahi, welcomingly sympathetic. Daichi turned away and strode back over to the bench, where the dog was now waiting impatiently, his tail wagging furiously. Acknowledging Asahi with a good-natured nod, Suga too walked away, leaving Asahi with no choice but to follow, so that he wouldn’t be left standing alone and feeling awkward, which he was eager to avoid at all costs.

Pushing Nishinoya as far from his mind as he could, Asahi collapsed onto the bench and trained his gaze on Daichi and Suga and applied all of his meager powers of perception and attention; he soon found it easy to be enthralled by the nuances of their interaction. There was the way they scarcely bickered anymore and only joked amicably, or the delicate, torturous moments in which they came so close to touching but didn’t. Asahi shivered when Daichi lingered while brushing off Suga’s new coat, his fingers hesitating just a second too long across Suga’s shoulders. Daichi subsequently shot him a warning glare. _Don’t ruin this for me_ , it said. _Don’t give me away._ Then he turned back to Suga, offering a hand that was accepted. Almost imperceptibly—and Asahi was surprised he caught it—Daichi ran his thumb tenderly across the back of Suga’s hand, and Asahi was overwhelmed with shame once again, for seeing something he shouldn’t have.

* * *

The early hours of night were cooler than Daichi had anticipated: a wind was blowing from the sea, sweeping around the deck of the ship and twisting around the decorative flags ornamenting the outdoor space. But in spite of this, Daichi felt impossibly warm. Suga’s hand was resting gently in his, waiting for guidance. His thumb tingled with the knowledge of Suga’s skin, simultaneously aching with the current absence of such tenderness. His veins coursed with liquid fire; he was overwhelmed by the sensation of being aflame. It was utterly agonizing, and still somehow stimulating.

Someone cleared his throat. Looking up from his lucky hand, Daichi saw Suga staring at him curiously, his head tilted to one side. “Everything alright, Daichi-san?”

Swallowing, Daichi nodded, a bit too vigorously. “We’ll have to do this without music,” he muttered weakly, curling his fingers a little tighter around Suga’s palm.

Squeezing Daichi’s hand (which Daichi feared might paralyze him permanently), Suga smiled sweetly and pulled him towards the middle of the deck. “That’s fine. I’m a quick learner.” Daichi’s head was reeling. He prayed it was a reaction to the swaying of the sea.

But when Suga grinned and giggled, likely at Daichi’s mouth, which was slightly opened in astonishment— _fuck_.

He started to worry that Suga might undo him before they reached Paris.

Since that night on the river, Daichi had only been falling faster. The world around him had picked up incredible speed, yet he felt that he was stumbling, slowly and gracelessly, through everything. At every turn, he was tripping over his own feet, and landing face first. Like how whenever Suga spoke, he shivered. He was starved for that once-used tone of voice, delicate, tender, restrained. Daichi longed to grasp at that hopeful feeling—maybe Suga was trying to hold something deeper back—which he had experienced that night. But Suga seemed unperturbed; his lips hardly quivered, his eyes never wandered or averted. And Daichi was still falling, into love, into an abyss of despair and hopelessness; because Sugawara Koushi never could, and certainly _never_ would, love him.

With a shaky breath, Daichi grabbed Suga’s loose hand and placed it on his waist. Startled, they both stood frozen for several seconds. It felt so wrong, that small, light hand against the firm muscles around Daichi’s ribs. It was so gentle, too gentle. What dancer could it possibly lead? Swallowing, Daichi placed his arm on Suga’s shoulder. He attempted to be delicate and relaxed, but immediately felt uncomfortable when the breadth of his palm covered the entire surface area of the shoulder. Offering a soft frown, he looked into Suga’s face.

Suga was staring back at him pensively, a crease of confusion hanging between his eyebrows, above his nose. His eyes were glowing in the moonlight—and how unfair, that he should be brilliant at both day and night, Daichi thought—and his lips were parted faintly, as if to ask a question. Daichi felt some dampness between their hands, and thought perhaps Suga might have been sweating, but he couldn’t definitively discern it from the warmth and the discomforting tingling spanning his whole body. He cleared his throat, eyes absorbed by Suga’s, and muttered: “Okay, follow me.”

He stepped backwards and led them into a comfortable waltz, murmuring a soft count under his breath. Unsure where to look, he continued focusing his eyes on Suga’s, which changed with their position and the motion of the boat. The entire process of reflection and learning could be seen in the quivering of his eyelids and the dilation and contraction of his pupils. Daichi fell further and further into that gaze, when suddenly he tripped over a stray crate and nearly fell, saved only by Suga’s hands grabbing his forearms and pulling him up violently.

Stumbling upright, Daichi looked down at his feet, trying to conceal the heat spreading across his cheeks, ears, and neck. Oblivious, Suga kept his hands tightly around Daichi’s arms and squeezed. “Are you okay?” Daichi nodded.

“It’s just the boat,” he stated lifelessly, still staring at the wooden deck.

Before he realized it, Suga’s face was beneath his, looking up. Daichi jumped. “Staring at the ground isn’t going to help,” Suga replied, clucking his tongue. “We can stop, if you want. I think I get it.”

From the side, Asahi spoke up. He had leapt to his feet, from fear and surprise, and was wringing his hands nervously. “He was doing really well, Daichi.”

“No,” interjected Daichi, looking up from the floor, but staring straight out to the black water. He couldn’t look at Suga, or even Asahi; he could still feel the redness blotching his skin. “The more practice, the better. We don’t have a lot of time…”

“Okay, okay,” interrupted Suga, tugging at one of Daichi’s arms. “We can keep going.”

They repositioned so they were again standing in the middle of the deck, one of Suga’s hands on Daichi’s waist, the other awkwardly cupping one of Daichi’s larger, calloused hand. Slowly, they moved backwards—Daichi again led them there—and began waltzing around the deck in silence, rhythmically but to no count. After a short time, Daichi finally tore his gaze from the sea and looked at Suga, who was gazing at him blankly.

“Y-you, um,” he began, tongue contorting in his mouth. He nearly choked on it, and flushed as a result. “That suit looks nice on you.”

Suga pulled back, surprised. “Thank you.”

They were silent another moment. “Does it fit well?”

Suga blinked. “What?”

“The suit. Does it fit?” Daichi could hear the idiocy of his question as it trailed from his lips. Suga cocked an eyebrow doubtfully, and his lips held back from an amused smirk. Mortified, Daichi opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came. His cheeks ached from burning.

“Yes, it does,” replied Suga, trying to restrain the mirth in his face. “I mean, it does look good on me, right?” Daichi had no reply; he hardly even heard. Suga’s face was still so beautiful when contorted by subdued laughter and so Daichi was busy cursing everything, the sun, the moon, the particles of matter, for making it so. “Or were you just flattering me, Daichi-san?” teased Suga, though there was a slight edge to his voice, like bitterness, or maybe sadness. “You don’t have to be nice to me, you know.” There was a brief pause, in which Suga tilted his head and bit his lip, which sent a thrumming noise through Daichi’s ears. “It’s not like I’m nice to you.”

Daichi couldn’t understand what was happening. What Suga was saying, what Daichi was feeling, what he was seeing on Suga’s face, none of them linked up. He felt strangled by his lack of a reply, but even more constricted in searching for one. At last, he shook his head. “No,” he replied breathily. “I wasn’t flattering you.”

“Oh!” It was almost an exclamation, and Daichi swore under his breath at how his skin rippled at the sound. Suga’s cheeks reddened as he smiled appreciatively, sending Daichi’s heart into an erratic rhythm, like an untrained child playing the drums. “Well, then thank you again.”

“Y-you’re welcome.”

They continued dancing, now pushing into the night’s silence. Daichi considered himself lucky to still be breathing. He had never been so weak for anyone else. He remembered the feeling of wanting someone, of being hungry for them, and with Suga there was some of that, but only some. The rest was an indescribable desire to never let go. There was an implied permanency in the way Daichi touched Suga, so he dared not touch him at all, if he could avoid it. Suga was more like air than food; Daichi wanted it and needed it and knew he never could or would tire of it.

He never tired of analyzing the individual strands of Suga’s ash-blond hair, or thinking about the way that his eyes seemed to shine even when they were closed. Every time his lips parted, Daichi noticed, and started—there was something sweet about the half-smile that they naturally formed. And Suga’s frame, lithe, willowy, and all the while robust, was interesting in every way; it kept Daichi thinking and reacting at every turn. But the worst was that, two days before now, Daichi had noticed another mole along Suga’s collarbone as he had been dressing in the morning. So for two days, Daichi had been staring helplessly along Suga’s neck and then his arms and hands, and then anywhere else he got a glimpse of, looking for more.

Daichi tried violently to shake Suga’s body from his thoughts, but with him there, right in front of him—with Suga in his _arms_ —he could do no such thing. Resigned, then, he offered a feeble smile. “You’re doing really well.”

“Thank you.” Suga’s voice sounded far off.

“You’re a natural.”

“Thank you,” the response was again.

“Are you sure you’ve never waltzed before?” The emptiness of his inquiries was a cry for help.

“Pretty sure,” Suga nearly whispered, a tiny smile dancing on his mouth. “I’m just following you, anyway.”

“Mm,” hummed Daichi. They turned with the motion of the boat and their feet stepped perfectly, together, in time. It was only when they moved forwards, to turn again, that realization hit him: the realization that this whole time he had been leading, and not Suga. He stopped abruptly. “I… I think you should lead the dance now.”

“I… what?” Suga’s brow furrowed. “Oh. Okay?”

“This is just a lesson, after all,” Daichi stated, strained. He allowed Suga to push him back with a step, shifting the balance of the dance. Even with their bodies correctly oriented, though, the motions felt off. “Now that you know the steps, you should lead.” His next words fell from his mouth unhappily, involuntarily. “Besides, the man always leads.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” To Daichi’s surprise, Suga sounded unflinchingly dejected.

They continued on in awkward silence, trying to accept the discomfort of the dance. Suga led gently, and Daichi received it as best he could, but they were no longer sweeping along as they had been before. Their footsteps were uncertain, tentative, and unnatural. Maybe it was the fact that Daichi had had years of experience with waltzing, or maybe it was that Suga was not sure yet how to lead, or maybe it was that they simply couldn’t dance like this, but Daichi for some reason felt the overwhelming urge to stop. His head was spinning, but whether from the movement or the ship or Suga’s hand on his waist he wasn’t altogether sure.

“That was… you’re great. We can stop,” he said wistfully, looking out at the sea.

A pause. “We already have,” Suga replied softly, dropping his hand from Daichi’s waist.

It was true. Their feet were motionless beneath them, upset only by the gentle rocking of the boat. Confused—and missing the warmth of that welcome hand—Daichi looked Suga in the eyes again. There was something swimming there, a pool of warm unhappiness that nipped at Daichi’s heart. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand out of Suga’s.

“You were great,” he repeated blankly. Suga nodded, equally as emotionless. They stood too close, facing each other, for something like years.

“I’m a little dizzy,” Suga said quietly, at long last. “I’m going to go and…” he looked down, seeming uncertain what to say. “I’ll go lie down.” Daichi only nodded in response, watching him as he walked away. At his heels, the dog followed.

When Daichi turned away from Suga’s receding figure at last, he lighted upon Asahi, sitting on the wooden bench, his mouth hanging open. Daichi grimaced nervously at the sight. “What?” His voice came out sharp, demanding.

“N-nothing,” stammered Asahi, looking away, gazing out past Daichi at the sea. Silently observing his friend, who only stared out at the black horizon and tried to ignore the constant reddening of his cheeks, Daichi uttered a sigh. He turned to follow Asahi’s eyes and tried pushing Sugawara from his mind. The moon soon absorbed him: it reflected a light-grey shadow on the water, one close to the color of Suga’s hair. Silence seemed to settle over the night at last, as the echoes of their voices were swallowed by the rolling waves. Daichi felt his heart settling at last into a calm, peaceful rhythm. Breathing deeply, he encouraged Suga to wander back into his thoughts. Daichi was wondering how many moles there were on Suga’s body, where they were, and if he could count them, when a small voice interrupted his reverie and his steady heartbeat.

“I never should have let you dance.”

Surprised, Daichi spun around to face his friend. Asahi was standing, his eyes bearing down on Daichi’s, lined with pity and… and something the slightest bit like fear. Shrugging absently, Asahi shoved his hands into his pockets and started off, still large but somehow seeming impossibly small, leaving Daichi to stare after him until he disappeared and all that was left was the sea. 

* * *

Daichi had never had trouble sleeping. He had slept on ships, on trains, on the side of the road even. But tonight his eyes wouldn’t close. He stared blankly at the ceiling, listening to the slow breathing of his companions and the occasional dream-induced growl from Pooka.

For hours, the ship had been rocking precariously, as the clutches of a storm slowly encircled it. The wind and the sea howled in unison, whistling violently through the single cabin window, pushing papers and clothes across the room. Even so, the atmosphere was peaceful. An air of softness had settled over the room, created and sustained by the sounds of slumber.

Yet since all three of them had crawled into their beds and mumbled tentative, uncomfortable “goodnight”s, Daichi had been lying immobile, lost in thought rather than in sleep.

He tried futilely to think of anything or anyone but Suga. He lingered over Asahi, wondering why he had been so off: even if Asahi _had_  heard his conversation with Suga, things had been uneasy before then. Before they had even met Sugawara. Daichi never mentioned, but he noticed, how Asahi seemed to clench every muscle in his body when Nishinoya was alluded to. There was an obvious lie in the insistence that _Nishinoya-san and I are fine_ but there was nothing he could do, because Daichi, for all his romantic experience, had no idea what to say about love. Anything he could have said would have felt and would have been false. Swallowing a sigh, he only resolved to let Asahi build up and continue his lies. He had no right to feel betrayed or excluded, he told himself chidingly: Asahi’s heart was his own, even if Daichi would have protected it like it belonged to him.

Daichi wondered, though, if perhaps he would even be capable of protecting Asahi’s heart, since it didn’t seem like he could insulate his own. He had tried constantly to not feel or think things about Suga and couldn’t recall a time he had been successful. He knew he would have insisted to anyone who asked that the world was out to get him. But truthfully he loved thinking about Suga, as frightening and unwise as it was, because there was nothing brighter or better than that feeling of his heart inflating. He remembered having felt other people in his stomach; feeling like having them would satisfy a hungry growling. With Suga, the sensation was in his heart. It was tightening, constricting, but whenever Suga smiled or touched him, every muscle in Daichi’s body suddenly relaxed, until he thought he might float away on euphoria.

Daichi was tracing, for the countless time that day, the curve of Suga’s cupid’s bow in his mind, when something at his side stirred and he jumped. A low growl pressed into his waist and he sat up, startled. Then he realized it was Pooka— _that fucking dog_ —pressing his nose purposefully into Daichi’s side. The dog’s eyes shone even in the darkness, seeming to flash with fear. Nonetheless, Daichi lay back down, cursing the dog and the disruption of his reverie, when the thing _barked_.

“Shh!” Pooka barked again and Daichi reached out a hand to swat him that somehow, unfortunately, came right between the dog’s teeth. “Ow! Fuck,” he hissed, sitting up again, staring down at the little animal with every ounce of viciousness he could manage. “What the fuck!”

In sitting up, Daichi realized the ship was rolling ever more fiercely on the waves. Light flashing through the small window and the sound of water beating the walls of the ship indicated rain. Asahi’s shape was propped up, peering over the edge of the bed. He caught Daichi’s eyes sleepily.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, the dog’s just being annoying,” he replied, combatting the soundtrack of water and thunder. Asahi cocked his head curiously. Daichi shrugged in response.

As Asahi turned away and curled back up under the sheets, Daichi’s eyes fell across the lower bunk, where Suga was sleeping.

Or should have been sleeping. It was empty.

Pooka yelped, tugging at one of Daichi’s pant legs. Suddenly understanding and immediately panicked, he threw off the blankets and scrambled to his feet. Asahi sat up again, confused, mumbling a sleepy “what’s wrong” as Daichi pulled open the cabin door and ran out into the stairwell.

The rain covered everything. The wood seemed to slip from beneath Daichi’s feet and he grabbed onto everything but held onto nothing. Painstakingly, he made his way up the stairs to the deck, not sure where to look or turn, when a figure standing by the railing of the ship caught his eye.

He recognized the hair, Suga’s hair, still ash-blond though soaked, blowing wildly in the storm. Hardly thinking, he skidded across the deck, until he was standing to the side of Suga. He was barely moving, only hanging over the edge of the ship, looking down into a burgeoning whirlpool below.

“Suga?” asked Daichi quietly, reaching for his shoulder. Suga pressed into the wind and silence, offering no answer.

Daichi felt his heart stop. “Suga, what are you doing?”

No response. Daichi then noted that his eyes were closed; he was sleeping. There was a smile, soft and absent, on his lips, and as the wind licked his cheeks, he uttered a small laugh. Daichi shuddered.

“Suga?” Suga pressed his body forward, into the wind, into the open space above the sea, and laughed again, still quietly. He continued leaning, further and further, and Daichi felt his voice dying in him, but desperate to call out. “Suga,” he croaked, moving closer Suga as his body tilted continuously towards the water, his hands starting to slip. Suddenly, with a gasp, Suga’s eyes flew open and he lost his grip. His fingers came loose from the railing, but Daichi flung himself forward and curled his arms around Suga, taking him back from the pull of the sea.

Suga’s body crumpled in his arms; it went limp and fell to the floor, Daichi following with it. They sat silently for several minutes, Daichi wrapped around him, until the sound of crying steadily overtook the dying noises of the storm. The wetness on Daichi’s hands and wrists was not from the slowing rain, he realized, but rather from tears in Suga’s eyes. A cavity opened in his breast and he clutched his arms tighter around the shaking body leaning into his. Burying his face into the back of Suga’s neck, he pressed a sigh over his shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Suga suddenly writhed beneath him, until they were facing each other. His cheeks were red from the wind, his eyes pink from crying. His teeth pulled his bottom lip tightly and his jaw quivered. Unable to continue looking at Suga in such pain, like he was watching the end of everything, Daichi pulled him into his chest, burying Suga’s face against his soaked shirt. “You’re safe.”

“I-I had a bad dream,” Suga whispered shakily, the breath from his lips hot and wet.

Daichi tightened his grip. “I know. It’s okay.”

“Thank you.” Suga’s voice trembled some time later. His eyes were dry—they looked almost raw—and he was looking up, his chin pressed into Daichi’s sternum.

“Just…” Daichi felt himself straining, pushing back tears. Where would Suga be, where would _he_  be, if Suga had fallen into the sea? He pushed down the voice that repeated _dead_ in his head. He couldn’t bear to think that. There was no living, no anything without Suga, not that he could conceive. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Suga didn’t flinch or start in surprise, but instead buried himself back into Daichi’s chest. “I won’t,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around Daichi. Closing his eyes, feeling hollowed out by fear, Daichi pressed his lips to Suga’s hair and left them there for a long time, until the rain had stopped and all that remained was a calm, unassuming wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, good to see you on the other side!
> 
> As always, I ripped my title from Russian poetry/literature!!!! This time, it's a poem by Marina Tsvetaeva entitled "As the Hand on the Left With...":
> 
> As the hand on the left with the hand on right  
> Our souls are beside.
> 
> We had both gone in a bliss of flight  
> As the wing on left and the wing on right.
> 
> But a whirl arrived -- and a chasm is left  
> From the wing on right to the wing on left. 
> 
> Okay, thank you for reading (if you got this far)! I really appreciate the growing support and I'm glad people seem to like it! Don't be afraid to comment or reach out or whatever I'm literally so not scary. I promise! I'm getting into the last leg of school now so I REALLY can't promise that I'll update before the middle/end of June, but I will try my hardest. In the meantime, remember things will get less sad eventually. I won't make 2/3 of the characters cry in every chapter, I promise.
> 
> UPDATE 7/29: I'M SORRY. I know it's been MONTHS since my last update but I will update by August 12th!! In the meantime, follow me on Twitter @lilspoonasahi if you want to hear me complain about my job/ask me any questions? My account is locked but it's cool, just request anyway. Thanks for your patience.


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